


Detached

by draculard



Series: Pellaeon/Thrawn 30 Day Ficlets [27]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Also this definitely should have been yesterday's prompt, And I go where the whims take me haha sob sob, Angst, But apparently I wasn't feeling hurt/comfort yesterday, Dissociation, Embarrassment, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Bilbringi AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thrawn Lives AU, this got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26659027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Halfway through a peace conference with the New Republic, Pellaeon glances at Thrawn and sees the early signs of dissociation coming on.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo
Series: Pellaeon/Thrawn 30 Day Ficlets [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904581
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Detached

It was just the four of them in the conference room that day — Pellaeon and Thrawn on one side of the table, with Jedi Master Skywalker and Senator Organa Solo on the other. They’d found over the past year that, despite all odds, this was the only configuration of New Republic and Imperial delegates capable of working civilly with each other. There was a quiet camaraderie between Skywalker and Pellaeon, and he sensed a similar respect — slightly more frigid, but there nonetheless — between Thrawn and Organa Solo. 

Between the two siblings, Pellaeon thought he might like Organa Solo slightly better, though he didn’t exactly get along with her. She was the one who’d arranged a suite for him and Thrawn to share, and although that meant she somehow knew about them, she hadn’t flaunted the knowledge or used it against them, even subtly, since. 

He glanced at Thrawn, whose hooded eyes were fixed on the datapad before him with disinterest. The whole thing was taking a toll on him, Pellaeon knew — not so much the meetings themselves or the constant interaction with the Skywalker twins, but the separation from his flagship — familiar, vetted ground — had Thrawn on edge.

Since Bilbringi, he hadn’t been comfortable with _any_ new locations, Pellaeon knew. To spend so much time in the former Imperial Palace was gradually having an effect on him; sometimes, when Pellaeon glanced sideways, he could see a hint of stress lines around Thrawn’s eyes. It was the hyperarousal part of his disorder, Pellaeon knew; there was a part of Thrawn’s brain always making contingency plans, cataloguing the number of potential enemies in the room, planning his escape route. 

Not that Pellaeon could blame him, of course. He went through the same thing himself, on a minor level — every soldier did. But for Thrawn, whatever instincts he’d had before Bilbringi had been magnified by ten ever since, bringing him to an unhealthy level.

And now he was distracted. Pellaeon eyed Thrawn, barely hearing a word Organa Solo said. There were times on the _Chimaera_ when Thrawn got this way; he became distracted sometimes; his responses came out sounding hollow and rote. It had taken Pellaeon months to learn that, in Thrawn, these symptoms were the only outward signs of a panic attack. 

He looked down at his own datapad, thinking back over the conversation thus far and trying to think of anything that might have set Thrawn off. So far as he could tell, there was nothing. It could have been Thrawn himself, thinking too hard on something Organa Solo said, going off on too many mental tangents until he stumbled across something he’d rather not think about. 

Pellaeon glanced at Organa Solo and Skywalker, making sure they weren’t watching Thrawn too closely. They didn’t seem to have noticed a thing; they were talking among themselves now, leaving the two Imperials behind. Casually, Pellaeon scooted his chair closer to Thrawn.

“Sir?” he said under his breath. Thrawn didn’t seem to hear him; his posture was a little stiff, but almost normal, and his eyes shifted across his datapad like he was rereading the content there — an almost convincing act, Pellaeon thought, but his eyes were clearly unseeing to anyone who cared to look. Or rather, whatever he was seeing couldn’t be seen by anyone else at the table. 

“Yes?” said Thrawn, his voice steady — and his answer several seconds too late. Both Organa Solo and Skywalker looked up, sensing something in Thrawn’s voice that alerted them. Pellaeon glared at them reflexively — couldn’t help it — and turned his attention back to Thrawn.

“Did you see the message from Lieutenant Tschel?” he asked as casually as he could.

After a long moment, Thrawn’s thumb twitched, swiping clumsily over the datapad screen. It took him two attempts to pull up his messages; his expression didn’t change once the entire time, even when he saw that there was no message from Lieutenant Tschel waiting. He stared at the screen, unblinking, and then looked up with an imperiously bored expression on his face. His eyes passed right over Skywalker and Organa Solo as if they weren’t there; a line appeared between his eyebrows as he scanned the room.

 _He doesn’t know where he is,_ Pellaeon realized. The imperious expression was a front; the line between his eyebrows was the only genuine indicator of emotion on Thrawn’s face. 

A pit opened up in Pellaeon’s stomach and he caught himself glancing at Skywalker and Organa Solo again, checking to see if they’d figured out what was going on. They hadn’t — yet — but it wouldn’t take long for them to at least put some of the pieces together and realize the Grand Admiral before them wasn’t entirely well, even this long after Bilbringi. 

Perhaps the Tschel decoy had been a misstep. Usually, something like that — calling Thrawn’s attention to a message that didn’t exist, asking him a trick question, saying something they both knew was nonsense — served to jump his brain back into gear. Today, it seemed to have done the opposite, and Pellaeon should have _known_ it would — he’d only ever tried the decoy system before on familiar ground. In Thrawn’s quarters, or in his command room, or on the bridge of the _Chimaera_. 

Here, where Thrawn was already unbalanced....

“Grand Admiral?” said Organa Solo, her voice distant and respectful. “You alright?”

Pellaeon kept his eyes on Thrawn, desperately praying he’d get an answer out in time. It was a long moment before Thrawn glanced up, looking in Organa Solo’s direction but not directly at her. 

He didn’t respond, but he tilted his head to the side as if listening very closely. To Pellaeon, it looked like he’d heard a faint noise from across the room and couldn’t quite tell what it was. 

“Perhaps a brief recess…” Pellaeon said, keeping his tone as professional as Organa Solo’s. He watched Thrawn’s eyes slide closed and then flutter open again, his expression still unreadable.

“Is he okay?” asked Skywalker.

Damn him, couldn’t he take a hint? Pellaeon gritted his teeth. “He’s fine, thank you. Can we take a recess?”

“Of course,” said Organa Solo, sounding politely baffled. “There's a fresher down the hall. Take all the time you need—”

“We’d like to take the recess _here_ ,” Pellaeon stressed. Mentally, he added the keyword: _Alone_.

He didn’t look at the twins, so he couldn’t be sure if they understood. Next to him, Thrawn adjusted his grip on the datapad as if nothing was going on around him. His expression was detached and calm, the same expression Pellaeon had seen a million times on the bridge. Feeling safe, Pellaeon turned back to Skywalker and Organa Solo and opened his mouth to chase them out.

“Ah…” said Skywalker before he got the chance. Silently, Organa Solo raised her finger and pointed to Thrawn. Pellaeon whipped his head back.

Thrawn’s expression was unchanged: he looked detached and calm, if somewhat distracted. The only difference was that there were tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

“Shit,” Pellaeon bit out under his breath. He saw Skywalker and Organa Solo shift in their seats out of the corner of his eye, both of them awkwardly opting not to speak. Pellaeon shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, unfolding it with a scowl. “Some privacy?” he snapped. “Please?”

For a moment, he didn’t think they would grant him even that. He kept his eyes on the handkerchief, looking neither at Thrawn nor at the New Republic delegates as he pretended to fuss with the corners on the cloth square. He stood, thinking he might block Thrawn from their view, but realized before he had found his feet that there was no way to do so without pulling Thrawn’s chair back — and to move him now, without his permission, probably wasn’t the best idea.

“Of course,” Organa Solo murmured a beat too late. She stood, and Skywalker followed, both of them leaving the room without another word.

The door had barely closed behind them when Pellaeon leaned forward, placing one hand gently on Thrawn’s arm. He kept his grip loose through the resultant flinch, waiting until the tension had faded from Thrawn’s shoulders before he moved again. 

He lifted the handkerchief and pressed it as softly as he could to Thrawn’s face, dabbing at the tears. Thrawn’s eyes closed at the first touch and didn’t open again for a full minute; he sat still in his seat, breathing shallowly but silently, and let Pellaeon tend to him. It was possible he didn’t fully realize he was being touched, or didn’t recognize the source, but Pellaeon liked to think he was more aware than that — that perhaps the moment of silence and physical connection, not to mention the darkness provided by the handkerchief, would allow Thrawn the time he needed to recover and find his bearings.

He wiped the tears away carefully as each new one came, trailing the handkerchief over the ridge of Thrawn’s cheekbones and letting the cloth absorb the moisture there. He felt Thrawn’s eyelashes flutter against his palm as he moved away slightly, checking to see if he was still crying. Gently, Pellaeon placed his fingers against Thrawn’s jaw, holding him still as he placed the handkerchief back against his eyes. 

It was another long moment before Thrawn took a sharp breath, as if coming awake, and lifted his hand. He tugged the handkerchief out of Pellaeon’s grip, eyes sliding open again as he folded it over and wiped his cheeks. 

“What happened?” he said while his face was covered, voice thick. 

Pellaeon didn’t answer right away. He waited until Thrawn raised his head again, the handkerchief twisted delicately over his index fingers. His eyes were hooded, his expression detached like before.

“You started crying,” Pellaeon said. He studied Thrawn’s face, which was carefully wooden. His red eyes flickered somewhat. “You were very quiet,” Pellaeon added gently, trying to lessen the embarrassment Thrawn was doing his best to hide. “Very composed.”

Thrawn’s lips twitched downward. He made an effort to suppress a frown. “While crying?” he asked.

“As much as anyone can be,” Pellaeon said, unwilling to give it up. “Certainly more dignified than I’ve ever seen before.”

This, he realized too late, was a misstep. Thrawn blinked rapidly, his face pinched, although no more tears fell. He turned away from Pellaeon with a ragged-sounding scoff.

“ _Dignity_ ,” he said dismissively, as if he rejected the concept in and of itself. For a long moment, he stared into the corner of the room, his head turned so that Pellaeon couldn’t see his face. Then, without looking away, he folded the handkerchief neatly into thirds and pressed the cloth against his closed eyes once again. There was a quiet sniff, almost inaudible, and then he turned back to Pellaeon again.

There was a question on his face, something he was trying to work himself up to ask.

“I sent them out,” said Pellaeon apologetically. “But yes, they saw.”

Thrawn digested this, saying nothing. He looked at his datapad, seeming to register the report there for the first time. He read through the first lines listlessly, not truly interested.

“Are we done for the day?” he asked finally.

Pellaeon hesitated, studying Thrawn’s face. “Do you need to be?” he asked eventually — only because he truly couldn’t tell.

Thrawn turned the question over in his mind and gave a single nod, his mouth tight. He wasn’t happy making that admission, Pellaeon knew.

“Do you want to stay here for a bit?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “Or are you ready to go?”

Thrawn switched his datapad off and tucked it under his arm, standing in one smooth motion. He folded Pellaeon’s handkerchief into his own pocket, as if it belonged there — and Pellaeon supposed he didn’t really want it back, so he didn’t protest. 

They walked back slowly, with Pellaeon setting the pace because he knew, if left to his own devices, Thrawn would walk as fast as he could to their suite. And in an unfamiliar place like this, he would only disorient himself further. 

They didn’t meet any of the New Republic delegates on the way — and if anyone they passed noticed the tear tracks on Thrawn’s face, they didn’t show it. Perhaps, Pellaeon thought, that was because even when he was so clearly distressed, Thrawn walked with his head held high and at a regal, dignified pace — perhaps when people saw that combined with the evidence that he’d been crying, they simply couldn’t reconcile the two and so they dismissed the evidence out of hand.

At least, he hoped that was what happened.

He unlocked the door to their suite and allowed Thrawn in before him. It didn’t surprise him, when the door was closed and Pellaeon was adjusting his chrono, that Thrawn walked straight to the bed and folded himself into it with peculiar grace, burying his face in the pillow at once.

Pellaeon watched Thrawn a moment, measuring the depth of his breaths from the up-and-down movement of his back, and decided Thrawn was only resting, not crying again. He shucked his tunic and trousers off, changing into civilian clothes as fast as he could before he tiptoed over to the bed and sat on the edge.

“Are you going to change?” he asked, putting one hand on Thrawn’s back. 

There was no immediate response. After a long moment, Thrawn sighed and rolled onto his back, letting Pellaeon’s hand trail over his arms. 

“I’m never going to live this down,” he said, looking miserable. Pellaeon couldn’t tell if it was genuine misery or if Thrawn thought he was pulling an exaggerated face for comedic effect. He ran his hand up and down Thrawn’s arm; if it _was_ meant to be a joke, there was too much real anxiety behind it to be funny.

“They won’t breathe a word of it to anyone else,” Pellaeon assured him.

A shadow crossed Thrawn’s face. “Really,” he said flatly. “You don’t think Organa Solo will mention it to her husband?”

“No,” said Pellaeon. He could see the disbelief in Thrawn’s eyes. “Because she knows that if she mentions something like that to Han Solo, he’ll tell it to anyone who will listen,” he said. “And Organa Solo is far too politically sharp to sully an alliance for the sake of some gossip with her husband at the end of the day. If she weren’t, she would have already told everyone about us. You know she’s noticed.”

Thrawn gazed up at him, eyes hooded. After a long moment, he let out a sigh and nodded. The tension didn’t entirely drain from his face.

“Do you think they’ll guess…” he started. 

“Why you were upset?” Pellaeon asked.

Thrawn didn’t respond, which meant Pellaeon hadn’t guessed exactly right.

“You’re worried they’ll realize it…” He paused mid-sentence, trying to frame his thoughts in a delicate way, so as not to offend. Thrawn didn’t like direct references to the disorder that plagued him; any time Pellaeon brought up the diagnosis he’d received from medbay, a scowl fought its way onto Thrawn’s face. “...it stems from Bilbringi?” he finished, figuring that was vague enough to please Thrawn.

He got a minute nod in response.

“I … I think they probably will,” Pellaeon admitted as gently as he could. “They’ve both seen, ah … similar symptoms before, I’m sure. They were generals in the war. It won’t take them long to put the pieces together.”

Most likely, they already had. Even before today, though Pellaeon would never say so. There had been plenty of signs.

“So what do we do?” Thrawn asked. His voice was calm and detached, but his eyes were pleading with Pellaeon to come up with a plan.

“What _can_ we do?” Pellaeon responded. He saw the shift in Thrawn’s eyes as he closed himself off, shutting down rather than face the emotions stirred up by Pellaeon’s answer. Pellaeon leaned forward, squeezing Thrawn’s arm and bringing his other hand up to touch Thrawn’s jaw. “They won’t use it against you,” he said firmly. “There’s no need to plot a battle plan here. We’re allies now, remember? All you have to do is process what happened today and move on.”

For a long moment, there was no reaction from Thrawn — his face was expressionless and his chest was still, allowing Pellaeon to read nothing from his breathing pattern. He counted the seconds until Thrawn finally inhaled again. 

“Do you remember what caused the…” Pellaeon started. _Flashback? Panic attack?_ He watched Thrawn’s face, but Thrawn only watched him back, giving nothing away. “Episode?” Pellaeon finished.

“Episode?” Thrawn repeated, one eyebrow raised. “You sound like a therapy droid.”

Pellaeon grimaced. His elbow twinged, complaining about the weight he was putting on it, so he flipped over on his back and lay down next to Thrawn, staring up at the ceiling. “What would you call it, then?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t discuss it at all,” said Thrawn dryly. He turned his head to look at Pellaeon. “Why does it need to be discussed?”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Pellaeon debated his answer. He reached over and found Thrawn’s hand, twining their fingers together. 

“Well, you had an episode today in front of the New Republic delegates,” he said, squeezing Thrawn’s hand. Thrawn jerked his hand away at once, jaw tight. 

“Don’t patronize me, Gilad,” he said. “Say whatever you want. Don’t show affection to me at the same time to soften the blow.”

Pellaeon scoffed at that. “You do the same thing whenever you piss me off,” he said, sitting up a little to glare at Thrawn. “You always try to distract me with sex. It’s fine when you do it but not when I do it, is that what you’re saying?”

“When I do it, it’s manipulation,” Thrawn said, staring impassively at the ceiling. 

Pellaeon fought back a surge of emotion. He wasn’t sure whether it was mostly anger or if it was mostly amusement at the fact that Thrawn seemed to think this was an acceptable thing to admit. Stifling a smile, he reached over and poked Thrawn, none too gently, in the upper arm. Finally, Thrawn’s eyes slid over his way.

“And manipulation is fine but a little bit of justified concern is not?” Pellaeon asked.

“If that’s how you want to define your motivations,” said Thrawn. Pellaeon said nothing for a moment; he only sat there, giving Thrawn his best no-nonsense look. Gradually, something shifted in Thrawn’s face — he couldn’t be sure exactly what the change was, a softening or a hardening, but he knew instinctively that now was the time to speak.

“No touching and no patronization,” Pellaeon promised, lifting his hands to show he wouldn’t use them. Keeping his voice low and gentle, he said, “I’m worried about you. I’d like to know what made you cry, if you remember.”

Thrawn wrinkled his nose. “Why?” he asked.

“Why?” Pellaeon shook his head. “So we can figure out how to address it the next time around. Or so we can avoid it, if we have to. That’s what the doctor—”

“Droid,” Thrawn corrected him.

“That’s what the _therapy_ droid advised us, yes,” Pellaeon said, voice strained. “So if you remember—”

He cut himself off with an exasperated sigh when Thrawn rolled over on top of him and pinned Pellaeon’s wrists above his head. His hips rocked against Pellaeon’s suggestively — but suggestive of what, Pellaeon didn’t know, because he could tell that despite his attempts at seduction, Thrawn wasn’t hard. He endured the closeness for a moment, reaching up to brush the hair back from Thrawn’s face.

“This is _blatant_ manipulation,” he complained. “You’re not even trying.”

“No,” Thrawn agreed. “But I don’t remember what happened in the conference room, Gilad, so you might as well drop it and adapt to the situation at hand.”

“Go with the flow,” Pellaeon suggested tolerantly. 

“Yes, either phrase applies,” Thrawn said, rocking his hips again. “So long as you don’t bring up the most embarrassing moment of my life again.”

Pellaeon snorted, but he didn’t argue. He let Thrawn work for a moment, leaving open-mouthed kisses on Pellaeon’s neck that just underscored the ridiculousness of it when neither of them were the slightest bit aroused. He gave it a minute longer, half-hoping one of them would rise to the occasion, but soon he could see a hint of desperation entering Thrawn’s face, and the whole scene became too pathetic to bear. Gently, Pellaeon pushed him off. 

“Not your best attempt at distraction,” he said as Thrawn collapsed on the mattress next to him.

Thrawn sighed, staring up at the ceiling. He looked drawn, exhausted. “Worth a try,” he said. He turned to Pellaeon, tracing his fingers over his arm; not trying to seduce or distract this time, Pellaeon realized; just reaching out. He let Thrawn stroke his arm for a moment — long enough, he guessed, to soothe him — and then caught Thrawn’s hand and squeezed it.

“I won’t press you to talk about it if you really don’t want to,” he said. “But at least tell me how you’re feeling now. I can’t tell.”

Thrawn sighed again, as if this were the most unreasonable request in the world. He shrugged, refusing to meet Pellaeon’s eyes.

“Numb,” he said eventually.

Pellaeon watched him, studying the flexes of Thrawn’s features as pain and anger flickered over his face. "Is that how you really feel?” he asked. “Or is that what you’re forcing yourself to feel?”

“Gilad,” said Thrawn heavily, “if I could force myself to feel anything, don’t you think I would choose something other than this?”

His voice was detached, but his grip on Pellaeon’s hand was just a touch too hard, and the lines of his face were more legible to Pellaeon now than they ever had been before. He squeezed Thrawn’s fingers, lifted his hand to his lips, kissed the faded scars across his knuckles.

“Sleep, then,” he suggested, and Thrawn’s face softened a little. “And tomorrow,” Pellaeon said, “we’ll politely suggest to Organa Solo and Skywalker that they hallucinated the whole thing.”

Thrawn snorted. 

“It was all a Force vision,” Pellaeon assured him. He touched Thrawn’s arm, pulling him closer, and after a moment Thrawn shifted until they were curled together with Thrawn’s head on his chest, listening to Pellaeon’s heartbeat. “Or perhaps it wasn’t a Force vision, but in fact an elaborate act put on by lookalikes we found in Corellia’s adult film section.”

Thrawn huffed out another laugh, but didn’t raise his head. Pellaeon rested one hand in Thrawn’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, something he knew was always guaranteed to soothe him to sleep. They didn’t speak after that; in time, Pellaeon felt Thrawn relax against him, already exhausted from the panic attack — flashback — whatever they wanted to call it. He closed his eyes and felt Thrawn’s breathing even out just moments later.

And since he was sleeping, Pellaeon ran his fingers through Thrawn’s hair and whispered another lie:

“You’re going to be alright.”


End file.
